


Half Only

by methylviolet10b



Series: Transposition [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Junian King is not a nice man, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's kept it carefully, waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half Only

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: SERIOUSLY DISTURBED. Makes NO sense if you haven't read [Transposition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/330996). You have been warned.
> 
> Written for vorpalsward, who prompted: The return of Junian King, and with him, more h/c for Watson (poor Watson, King was creepy, but so intriguing!)

  
  


The fabric was shiny in spots, worn smooth and glossy by repetitive movements of his fingers over the threads. The stitching that bound the front and the back of the band together had seen better days, but it still held, the original quality of the workmanship triumphing over time. It gleamed in his hands, stiff with starch and impeccably white. He insisted that it be so, and although his situation had changed over the years, his word still commanded absolute obedience where it counted. And in this, he refused anything less than perfection.

He brought the thin strip close to his nose. It smelled clean, the mingled scents of starch, laundry detergent, and a faint trace of bluing, all familiar through long exposure. There were hints of bay rum soap. A gentleman’s soap. An officer’s soap, one whipped into a lather every day, whisked carefully over the face before the steel razor’s blade sliced it away with the unwanted traces of stubble.

Just as the razor blade had sliced this fabric, cutting the stiff material in twain.

Half of it was missing. Had been missing ever since he’d wielded the blade that sundered the shirt collar in two and sent one part as both a message and a promise. And no matter how carefully he had maintained his half, there was yet more missing, something he’d not been able to imitate, though all else was as close as he could create to its original state. What remained absent was the scent of the man who’d once worn it, and with it, the traces of sweat, adrenaline, and well-controlled but undeniable fear.

Fear had its own special scent. He knew it well. Relished it. Was a connoisseur of it, a collector, as other, lesser men were of fine wines or paintings.

Like any master of his field, he appreciated artistry, and he knew a rare treasure when he saw one.

And when he’d acquired that treasure once more…ah, the art he would create then!

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 6, 2013


End file.
